But that first spring, when the row of dogwood trees he’d convinced Alan not to dig up and discard the season before had come back in a fragrant flush of pink bloom, Alan had found him on the property one day, come up from behind, and clapped Wendell on the back heartily. “You did good,” he said, like a father would say to his son. Or a staff sergeant to his private soldier. Words Wendell did not ever again deserve to hear. And he’d known then that staying apart would be hard.
When the sun streamed in through the windows the next morning, Wendell rolled out of bed and slipped into yesterday’s jeans. He poured his morning coffee into a travel mug and headed outdoors. Behind the farmhouse was a small red barn where his father stored tools and lawn mowers. Wendell entered the barn and did not come out for two hours.
At nine o’clock, when the bank opened, he called Trudy to the truck. That morning he did not turn right out of his driveway toward work. As he headed north toward the village center, he adjusted the rearview mirror, glancing once at his reflection. He knew what he needed to do.
EighteenRoberta
No one ever knocked on her door. Maybe it was because she had no friends in town. After a friend like Charlotte, what was the point? Maybe it was because everyone else knew better than to bother her. Unlike Robert Frost, Roberta believed good fences did make good neighbors. She loathed dinner parties and would rather perish than “pass the potatoes” around some neighbor’s table. She had no desire to break bread and listen to people chew it, or, worse, impart their mundane thoughts. No, Roberta did not call in on people, and she did not have people call in on her.
The last person to make that mistake was a fresh-scrubbed young man in a polyester suit who’d rapped on her door with his skinny knuckles and thrust a religious pamphlet under her nose. She knew those people had circled the neighborhood with some regularity in the five years since, but not once had one dared to stop in front of her house again.
So when someone stood at her door knock-knock-knocking like their life depended on it, Roberta was somewhat amused. They’d tire out soon enough, she figured as she turned the pages of her new book; they always did. But when the knocking paused and resumed, cruelly, she got annoyed. It did not matter who it was. Who did the caller think they were?
Book in hand, she peered out the window. It was not a religious pusher, as far as she could tell. Nor was it a delivery person. She squinted. It was a young girl. She softened a little. Maybe the girl needed help. Oh, hell. Roberta opened the door. “Yes?”
It was a girl, all right. A pretty blond teenager. She didn’t recoil at Roberta’s scowl. Nor did she step back as Roberta filled the doorway. Instead, she leaned in.
“Are you Roberta Blythe?”
Roberta sized her up. This one had pluck. “Who wants to know?”
“I’m Julia Lancaster.”
Roberta’s breath caught. It was one of Wendell’s Lancasters. She held the door open.
The girl had gone through two cups of peppermint tea, but Roberta had not even sipped from her first. She hadn’t had a chance.
“Let me see if I understand you correctly. You want me to help you emancipate yourself from your aunt and stay in Saybrook with your little sister.”
“Yes.” Julia’s expression was level. She’d done some homework. And she was dead serious.
What Roberta couldn’t figure out was how this girl had arrived on her doorstep. “Forgive me for saying so, but it’s my understanding that you have means. There are plenty of talented attorneys out there. You could afford to hire anyone.”
“I don’t want anyone. I want you.”
“How exactly did you find me?” she asked, expecting the girl to mention Wendell right off the bat.
“My boyfriend. I mean my friend, Sam. He found you somehow online. I think it was a newspaper article or something?”
Roberta’s insides shuddered. Was she referring to the Bruzicase? She switched the subject. “We actually have a friend in common.”
Julia stared blankly. “Really?”
“Yes. Wendell Combs.”
Immediately, Julia’s face clouded. “He’s no friend of mine.”
Roberta was confused. She knew Wendell didn’t let anyone get close, but from all the stories he’d shared of the Lancasters over the years, she’d come to the understanding that they had. And they’d liked him quite a good deal. “I’m sorry. I know he works for your family.”
Ever so slightly, Julia shook her head. “Not for long. He works for my aunt now. And she’s leaving.”
“I see.” All through her career, Roberta had to try to read people. It was part of her job. She could tell she’d hit a nerve with Julia; something had happened that she did not yet know about. But to guess from the look on the girl’s face, she was not about to share what it was. “Well,” Roberta said, “having heard all you shared today, I think you may actually have a case.”
Julia brightened.
“But I am not an attorney. Nor am I a guardian ad litem, which is what you will also need.” She stood and went to a small antique secretary desk in the corner. She pulled out her old Rolodex and riffled through it until she found what she was looking for. “What I can do is refer you to someone who is.” She plucked out a business card and handed it to Julia. “Here. Someone who can really help you.”
Julia blinked as though she’d not heard correctly. “But…”
